The tipping point, on the weekly circuit of emotions. The gate has well and truly closed on the open field of youth. The gates into rites-of-passage-adulthood (property ownership -household, marriage? – as a substitute to the foreclosed horizons of a world beyond work/consume/die) neither entice me or let me in. Every time I look through its window it smiles whilst telling me to fuck off.
Yesterday was Thursday. Thursday evening is the time of the optimist if there ever is such a time. And there is, whilst-ever we remain under the clock of capital. I’m an optimist. I’m too optimistic to forget to forget. And I have become crippled because I’m forever looking for a way out. I can’t, just fucking can’t, accept it. Stubborn bastard that I am, trying every doorway except the ones I’ve been told to open.
So why does Friday always fuck me over? “The end of the working week!”. Maybe I took that too literally? The ending? Yeah, I’m up for that! So I set out across the hallowed avenues and urban hallways of my nearby towns and cities. But as my eagle eyes pick up not a way forward, but the crush and compression of Now, quick fixes rush through my mind like a stampede of life trying to exit a burning room.”Northern Powerhouse?” Go fuck yourself, that should have meant something – if the future had actually arrived. But you stole that and sold us it back. And right now, not one of your new trendy cafes or real beer pubs can be anything more than a more socially acceptable plaster over a scar than that of those emaciated street drinkers, who increase in numbers in tear-jerking numbers around here.
I’m a badly beaten optimist. I should be able to stand proud with these bruises. But it just gets me so fucking wound up, that I just end up looking for the nearest pub (mirror view of ‘drinkers face’ like watching a collision course with premature old age, in slow motion).
What was once an itch I have scratched into a permanent scar.
My no-year resolution has been to stop cursing others even if they almost literally push my esteem-drained body out of the way within the eternal rush hour.
I told myself to break a leg, and look for love. To give it that chance you never fucking dared giving it when there still seemed liked there was all to play for. To see if such emotions can be prised out of the interlocked catacombs where they roam up and down until they finally die of exhaustion. I told myself to take risks: say yes to silly escapades into the foreclosed future – because that foreclosed future may turn out to be far from what I expected.
I told myself all the things. I’ve told myself these things every day. But then there is Friday. Or more specifically Friday teatime, when that jaw-bridge on potential lifts up. That ‘new Dawn fades’ onto a another fucked up state. Rounded off with dead end binge drinking in my home town. I need that guide, with its (his or hers) hand to lead me quickly out of the circuitry of the ever-decreasing Dismaland.
It’s an invisible consolation, when I realise I still have heart, as I feel it break in two as my longing gaze lands on the injustice of a broken army of innocents left to sleep in the streets of possibly the coldest night of the year.
Maybe I should also take consolation in the fact that my anguish is in fact indicative of the fact that I will never stop caring and hoping for something better than this.
Friday is the crusher. But as far as things stand I have always got back on my feet again. The fact that I get back on the same two feet to enter the same old crusher seems illogical to most. But maybe it’s time to take pride in my stubbornness.
….and I’m STILL currently listening to Under The Script Bridge by The Chameleons
Globalsapiens: an introduction to Parallel Paranoia, Humans In Cages and Silently Chained – the respective alternate names for artistic collective Mikk Murray, John Ledger and Jade Morris. Each artist has, at some point in life, stumbled across these titles and found them poetically fitting descriptions of their own predicament as young adults in the 21st century: tied to lifestyles that they know are destructive to the planet and most often self-destructive; struggling forwards from this, trying to find cracks in a hegemonic social landscape that drags humans toward an ultimate battle with nature that we are certain to lose.
Thus this show cannot be a means to an end for Globalsapiens: it has to be the start not the end; one of many ‘atoms for peace’, clustering together, always growing never standing still, until their shout is big enough to make one final stand against a world ruled by money. This exhibition aims to resonate with all those who care but feel trapped and helpless to make a change, and possibly then inspire them to believe that they need not feel trapped and helpless.
As a society, our actions, our expressions, our reactions, all show signs that we are aware of living in end times. Make no bones about it; no matter how much we talk about getting married, getting a house, settling down, we reek of a dying civilisation.
This exhaustion of everything in our merry-go-round swap between being the exploiter to the exploited has to end. Nobody can predict what ‘end’ we can expect, but we can guess what the prolongation of this current manmade nightmare will lead to. But we can also guess and hope; to hope that “surely this can’t be the end of the human story just yet…!” Grim resignation is dangerous; hope generates possibilities – but hope is sometimes hard for one to maintain.
Globalsapiens are artist’s who are desperately trying to find a way forward into a future worth living in. Our instinct is to express – we may not be the most pragmatic/practical people, but our contribution is a desperate attempt to realise a new way of living for the sake of the human race (sound self righteous? No: all species battle to maintain their existence). The time is right. Artists have no future in this old world, they must end their post idealist malaise/capitulation to the business mentality and join the cause to act now to make a future worth living in.
We felt aligned by a feeling that our artwork seems too driven, and too realmerely to be for exhibitions only – which often seem to just castrate it and make it nothing but mere consumer spectacle. This is a pressing concern that is played out within the show: we know that this is all our works may be, but we are still often driven by a powerful dream-boat of blind optimism that refers to the opposite, and seems to be generated by the ideological coding of the very system we are trying to help unwire. We want to help pave a way out of this bleak place our species (and the planet it has dragged down with it) has stumbled into, but we too often get too trapped in our minds to be/or do anything but what the system would happily have us be/doing – what keeps it thriving off human day-dreams and desires.
Nobody is in any place to preach. To resonate with others to generate in others. To alienate is to disintegrate. Let’s take the No Them, Only Us belief seriously again.
Human beings offer fundamentally special qualities to life on planet earth, and wherever else life may flourish. However, we are not better than the rest of life; if we were better we wouldn’t need it; but strip the life away from under our feet and we’d be dead before you could say the words ‘Easter Island’. Nevertheless, this is what out species is currently doing. But to say that we are a species of existential contradictions is to give up without even trying, and to let the idea of perpetual profiteering drag our eyes to the grey floor, where we watch our feet take one step at a time, in a potentially lethal small-world view. This exhibition wishes to contribute to the voices of reason in this time of collective insanity.
Inside Humans In Cages’ isolated cell
“Humans In Cages is feeling a little trapped, and without a vision of the future at present.”“The weekly ASDA shop likes this”
“The capitalist system still advances across the face of the planet, destroying the world that we depend on to survive, and pressing the boot further and further into our faces, as freedom/democracy become obstacles stood in the way which must also be destroyed. But here I languish; informed but passive; not knowing which foot to put in front of the other; so letting faint hopes of something better do the walking for me.
Here in my cell there will constantly remain the doubt that my artworks/artist shows may end up as nothing more than self-profiling within the capitalist dictatorship of individualism; the fetishisation of the self in the forced-competition of status advancement, based on the ultimatum of prosperity and a terror of failure. Thus, everything I have done within my isolated little world sometimes feels so counterproductive: that the truth may be that I am simply bolstering the realism of a system my work fundamentally opposes in its messages, by seeking recognition, and respect from it, for my individual endeavours.
I’ll do my best, but it’s hard trying to stop an exhibition become a means to an end from whereworking towards one final goal, (as anyone who as put on a major show will resonate with) leads to anti-climax, depression and a defeated-slump straight back into the realism of capitalism – to start right back at the beginning, but with less time than before.”
Achieving And Getting Things Done (installation)
Inside Silently Chained’s isolated cell
They all smiled gingerly and meekly.
Had they simply forgotten, or had they never known anyway? I guess it is neither.
They’re neither alive nor gone.
Not until the hour of the moon crosses the path of the sun.
Then they will know, and they will realise, what they had known all along.
But for now, it is too late. Too late. Too late?
Inside Parallel Paranoia’s isolated cell
This painting (above) is from a series of works called Where have all the bees gone? Where a parallel universe was created to highlight the importance of bees to the ecosystem and our food supply. Without the bees that pollinate roughly a third of our food crops there would be less food around. The chain reaction could be devastating to the human race and all life on Earth. The disappearance and death of bees or Colony Collapse Dissorder (CCD) as it is somethimes known is puzzling scientists and researchers still with mites and pesticides being the main concerns.
In the parallel universe the bees have been lured into a lab by a mad scientist and experiments have taken place. For some reason the scientist becomes psychically connect to the bees and finds they will do as he wishes. The scientist sets about creating his own Utopian vision. Using the soldier bees to hold the planet under siege and turn things around. Food, shelter and equality for all. Harmony with all living creatures and the landscape the ultimate goal. Organic produce, waste reduction, ocean cleanups, knowledge and wisdom passed on to all. The trouble was the scientist did such a great job that he became some sort of a celebrity. A leader and ultimately was devoured by power and greed. Alan is a dog and he spends most of his time walking around in his horse suit. Alan is the mad scientist’s best friend. The horse suit is an extension of Alan and his status/power and also the scientist’s eccentricity. The portrait of Alan was painted by Mikk for the Scientist in 2027. “I didn’t have a choice!” he said.
Many of our endeavours are maintained by reliance on oil. Many of our endeavours are purely narcissistic – taught by the system to be so. Reflecting on this can sometimes make one see their own ‘achievements’ in a very different light. And is it really that precious? (this piece was once used in a Seawhite Of Brighton arts suppliers brochure, not black gooey paint, with a look of oil about it, drips down it).
Parallel Paranioa is in the process of filling up a paddling pool with needless consumer plastic waste. In another water filled area (The Pacific Ocean) a floating island of plastic trash twice the size of Texas is currently existing.
Pandemic-Sheffield! Plague breaks out!!!
Note from self outside the cell to self inside the cell…
In the summer of 1944 delegates from 44 countries met in the midst of World War 2 to reshape the world’s financial system. The location of the meeting – in rural Bretton Woods, New Hampshire, USA – was designed to ensure that the delegates would have no distractions, and no pressure from lobbyists or congressmen, as they worked on their plans for post-war reconstruction. The New Hampshire Bretton Woods is part of a land grant made in 1772 by royal governor John Wentworth, which he named after his ancestral home (West) Bretton, in Yorkshire, England.
In the summer of 2011, Globalsapiens met in the midst of a global meltdown (financially, environmentally and socially) to throw around their own ideas of making a better world, with changes being needed now more than ever – A HUGE ALTERATION IS NEEDED. The location of the meeting – In rural Bretton woods in West Bretton, Yorkshire, England – is a symbolic gesture: the USA Bretton woods conference reshaped the world after the war, to prevent the problems (financial crisis’s for example) which led to the war; shaping the world for the past 60+ years, and beginning global capitalism as we know it today.
We need a Bretton woods conference now! Not to reinstate capitalism but to figure out how we can move beyond it. The sources of power whom we would usually assign these tasks to have gone insane; a systemic press-ganging on anything which tries to halt the forces of big business – which leaves this conference to people assumed-powerless like us (Globalsapiens). In this mock-version of an all-important conference, we will speak about, and demand a better world; suggesting, through the thoughts and words they never speak, both what these all-important meetings should really be about, and also emphasising what is more important; assigning the decision making to the assumed-powerless.
I am in the Yorkshire Metropolis -Leeds- again. This place has become the beating heart of Yorkshire, whether we like it or not. Looking down from a footbridge in the city, at all the cars and work vans hurrying in and out of the centre, one realises how little choice people have in succumbing to the emerging urban organism, caused by industrialisation.
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
Someone I know, who was a teenager when The The were releasing their material, now only to become one of what I would class as ‘one of Thatchers children’ – endemically business and materialist minded, with liberal views which have no depth and are quite phoney (though I still do like this person) – said of The The “H’mmm it was certainly ‘angry young man’ music!”
In the presence of these people, because of their material superiority (which is possibly sub-conscious) I still bow down to them, and accept their opinions as above mine, and I suppose in flat text it is true that The The’s music was angry and written by a young man (Matt Johnson). However, the generalizing music as ‘Angry young man’ music’, a long side the commonly used ‘Teenage Angst music’ shows that perhaps an common ‘adult’ mindset that is certainly patronizing, but more than anything an indication of acceptance of what one has been told to think by a societies ideology.
There is nothing I find more frustrating, than when people generalise passionate forms of art in this way, as if now they are grown up with a house and job, these feelings a merely ‘child’s play’. It is an indication that they are ceased to care about what is happening in the world, now that they have joined the established pathways, such as that of making good money.
They have become Blind. They have forgotten what they may once have felt, as they, whilst networking (thought it is called socialising) ‘Veneer’ over each others’ insecurities, by lying and saying that “everything is great!” and “you look fabulous, you are fabulous!”. The falsity of the liberalism, is very dissolutioning to one who actually wants to see a better world. The way this person labelled The The as ‘angry young man music’ gave the impression that “oh, that was just a phase we all go through when we are young!” I think a lot of people who reach a certain age use this idea of a past youthhood riddled with angsty, to deny the real problems of the earth and themselves, in their now older state.
This seems to be the homogenized world of the 30-50 something’s British middle class. ‘Thatcher’s children’ – as they are rightly named – have a lot to answer for. They have become the thick hedge protecting the system, spouting lush looking but utter tasteless fruits. I don’t think I can ever be part of this class, and I don’t think I’ll ever get to the point when I see The The as ‘angry young man music’: Matt Johnson wrote some brilliantly inciteful lyrics, especially those of ‘Infected’ which was a reaction to the beginning of Thactherism. These lyrics should be taken seriously and not put into a ‘angst’ category, once one feels that them kind of emotions are no longer acceptable within their social circles.
The ‘brother and sister’ music albums ‘Kid A’ and ‘Amnesiac’, by the band Radiohead, sum up these feelings for me. To me, they portray both these scenarios – the intense/claustrophobic work place (Kid A) and the equally troubling, but isolated feeling of being stood outside the place after work (Amnesiac). The intense/claustrophobic work place (the mood produced in Kid A) leaves one screaming for an opening in the doors, whilst the latter (amnesiac and the feeling of outside work) gives a equally unfriendly and unfree feeling, but with the cold/harsh fact that freedom, once taken from one inside the factory, is no longer obtainable outside it.
Saturday, 10 October 2009
Nobody – except those who are young, or luckily ignorant of all News stories – can speculate over the truth of global warming anymore; it’s 100% happening and there is 99% chance the climatic problems are going to get worse. Only those with a faith in religion, that is so blind that they cannot see an ounce of reality, could still argue about whether global warming is happening or not.
I have spells when I worry about the affects of global warming less than I would at other times, but I think this is understandable – it isn’t mentally possibly to concern one’s self with something so massive all of the time, without imploding one’s mental make-up.
However, despite what James Lovelock (founder of the Gaia theory) says (and I disagree with barely anything he says, because he is usually unshakably right) – that we are already too late in our actions to stop runaway climate change – we still must try our best!. For what we may learn and gain from this ‘trying’, both socially and scientifically, will help us to co-exist better as a species, and with the planet. Even if our numbers have greatly diminished at this time, and even if few areas of habitable land remaining (as awful as this would be), what we could have learnt, if we tried our best, could help humanity into a ‘re-birth’ with the planet, a time possibly even free of war, hatred and exploitation.
Of course there is still a hope that events so horrible, such as the death of billions of people, will not come true; but this hope is, sadly, very far from being a certainty. However, even if such bad things were to happen, there is still two roads/two choices humanity can chose from in our attempts to keep our species going in a reasonably civilised state: One, as I have mentioned above, a route that would surely lead to the acceptance of each other in what could be a rightful ‘second chance’ for socialism; or route Two – A third world war; as our nations fight for what remains of the earth’s resources and, therefore, we will have learnt absolutely nothing from the whole event that has been the Anthropecene and the outcome of this: disastrous climate change.